


The Fairytale She Wove

by AceLucky



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Affairs, Anal Sex, Angst, F/M, First Kiss, First Times, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Growing Old, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, Latin, Loss of Faith, Love, Miscarriage, Oral Sex, Romance, Rough Sex, Sex, Suicide, True Love, Violence, Whiskey - Freeform, Wolves, fairytales - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 20:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17873915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceLucky/pseuds/AceLucky
Summary: A long one-shot depicting the life and times of Dutch’s s/o, from when they first meet until his dying day. I wanted to capture what it would be like to be with him, all the love/praise/adoration, but also the paranoia/neglect/rage.





	The Fairytale She Wove

**Author's Note:**

> The story does skip a little time wise (in terms of going back and forward, reminiscing) But I hope the way I’ve written it and the way I use tense to convey what’s happening, makes sense. Dutch’s s/o is an ofc, I originally was going to write this about Molly, as there’s a lot of similarities, but considering what’s canon in the game, I decided that wasn’t right (but I do love Molly). There are no chapters, but due to the length of the piece I have used some dividers. I really hope you enjoy this, I’ve poured 30 hours or so into this over the past 6 weeks and honestly I’m still not 100% happy with it, so they may be a revised version in a few months! For example, although I touch on it I do want to add more about the tram crash and the impact it had on Dutch, I also worry Isla isn’t as likeable now as she was during my first draft. I haven’t focused too much on many of the characters or specific events, if I had this would have been a hella lot longer and would have taken away from the point of the story. Also, I deliberated over how old to make her for a long time (it was between 18-21), she needed to be young enough that she grows into herself with the gang, but obviously of legal age. I imagined that she meets Dutch sometime before the events in Blackwater also. I deviate from canon at the end in regards to the first game, I agonised over what to do, but the other option was too depressing at the end of a pretty angst-laden story. 
> 
> Finally - there is a massive reference to Angela Carter’s ‘The Company of Wolves’ if you’re wondering.

And when she’s around him her breast is full and she blossoms and blooms so that everyone can feel it. The atmosphere of the camp changes, and it’s like a grassy field after rain. When she sits beside him and his hand trails up her thigh, grabbing her flesh tight. Too tight perhaps in front of the rest of the camp, she flushes neck upwards but spreads her legs a little too wide to accommodate him. Her ruddy cheeks are not from shame but from desire, he wants to show the others she belongs to him, and she, isn’t ashamed to let her need show.

Like a cherry blossom tree she goes through seasons, there are times when she comes into bloom around him, her face lights up, she lives for him. And there times when there is a drought, when all her leaves fall, tattered and neglected around her.

She tumbles in all her skirts for him. She is grace, fallen. She is grace in every way when she isn’t with him. He is her undoing. How he watches her unravel, relishing in carnal sin. 

Her heart beats around him, her neck like that of a crane, follows him wherever he goes, savouring any attention, any small morsel makes her feel larger than the woman she is.

Arthur and John would tease her relentlessly, informing her often that some of her actions weren’t ladylike in the slightest.

And she would reply, laughter rising as she spoke, “I never claimed to be a damn lady!”

“Oh okay..” Came Arthur’s response as he too laughed. 

Dutch would be there, ever under his watchful eye she would vie for his approval, but it was never enough. Only with age, tragedy, and betrayal, would Isla learn that it would never have been enough. Dutch dreamed of an age long past, of blind loyalty. She had been enough for him, once, but that had faded like an old man witnessing the sun set on his last day. 

Oh oh it was good, when his kisses were full of teeth, bruising her collarbone as he worshipped her. When stubble started to grow, she would crave for it brushing against her inner thigh, sending chills up her spine whenever he did so. She would long for those moments when his moustache tickled her bud. In the beginning their love and passion was bountiful, he worshipped her like the goddess he believed her to be.

The ground shook for her the first time she set eyes on him, only 19 years old, all her plans, everything she had spent years meticulously mapping out, fell from beneath her feet, unimportant now in the face of such a man. She’d given him everything she had, promised herself to him, she needed no maps, nor books, nor guidance from family. She’d left the shores of home and before she’d started on her path, he had swept her up into his arms. 

On reflection, as her skin begun to map the storms she’d weathered, she realised she never stood a chance. He was always hungry and the consequence of this was that he had planned on having her from the moment he laid eyes on her.

Their first night out in town together had been an extravagant affair, of course members of the gang had laughed, of course Dutch would have organised no less and of course the others were jealous. 

There was a way he looked at her which she couldn’t describe in her journal, it wasn’t just hunger, there was a kindness there, perhaps she had mistaken it for love. Though, when she wrote those words in her diary when things would sour, she regretted them before the ink had a chance to dry. He had loved her. She believed, foolishly perhaps, that he had always loved her. But then when he was gone she pondered how easy it must be to feel remorse on one’s death bed.

When he first took her out in Blackwater he had taken her shopping, bought her dresses and lingerie and a beautiful green and gold shawl. All dressed up he had taken her for dinner, every part the gentleman, he doted on her in a way that made her feel like a princess. In the early days he would transport her to her childhood, to the stories her mother had told her of princesses locked in a tower and the gallant knights who came to save them. 

“You look ravishing my dear,” his words had swept her up. Silken, soft, the object of his desire and affection brought to life through his words so she would so readily believe him.

They didn’t return home that night, instead he had paid for a hotel and it was there he first slept with him, her virginity slipping through her fingers like sand through time. One moment she had been a girl full of foolish, naive dreams, and the next, as she listened to the ticking of Dutch’s pocket watch he had taken her. His weight near crushed her, made her feel loved and safe, he adorned her with kisses and praise, took his time, made sure to wait up until the second she was ready.

When they rode back into camp the next day on The Count, there were members of the gang who sensed the change in her, the women mostly, but Arthur had guessed. Arthur had always known what was up with her, but the smile she wore on her face paired so perfectly with her rosy, plump cheeks.

Arthur had helped her down from the saddle and she hugged him so enthusiastically, like a sister throwing her arms round a brother she hadn’t seen in a long time. There was a relationship they had with one another that barely required words, they just knew. But Dutch had been good to Arthur and looking out for him like a son, Arthur had no reason to worry about him and Isla.

The first time Dutch told her he loved her, she was lost, she should have known at that moment she would never have found her way home, even if she had tried. 

“Will you stay forever?” He asked.

She had laughed playfully, her wrist gently fanning herself, “Forever is a long time Dutch van der Linde.”

He’d smiled, eyes warm, not seeing her as prey for once, “I mean it, I love you Isla Robinson, will you stay with me?”

She’d stopped moving, frozen in the moonlight, carried away by all his previous promises, his words so sweet like nectar to her in the midst of a drought, “Like you even need to ask, I am yours.” 

The first few times they slept together at camp she had been nervous of the noise they were making, afraid others would hear and mock.

“Just let them try,” he had soothed as he kissed her knuckled, her wrist, kisses going up her arm to her neck. 

She could never say no to him, not her knight. So with the music that filled their tent, she set aside her fear and slid so willingly into his lap. His large hands would wrap round her waist just so, a perfect fit for one another, her eyes sparkling with adoration as she looked down into his weary lidded eyes. 

“Dutch?” She would ask whenever he seemed quiet, whenever she sat on his lap and his eyes seemed to fill to the brim with sadness.

“Sorry petal it’s nothing, as long as I have you, we’ll be alright,” he would reassure her so frequently and so easy in the early days and oh how she longed for that in the years that were to come. 

His thumb would trace her lips so gently that it felt like a butterfly’s wings. He would gently press against her chin, his fingers tracing her neck and she would welcome it, melting like butter under his touch. Her hips would roll involuntarily in his lap, there was a chuckle he had, it was low and often followed by a guttural moan. These were the sounds he made when she rode his lap as his thumb put pressure on her lower lip, asking permission for entrance without words. 

Her mouth would open and he would slip a finger inside, she would suck, grateful for all contact she had with him. The sucking would drive him crazy, how much care she took with just a finger, her tongue swirling round the digit, making him hard as her hips continued to roll into oblivion. Because when they were joined in the early days, nothing existed outside the tent.

He would cup her face, look at her like she was the world he would often pull her into his lap, especially when she least expected it, which would result in fits of giggling and him lifting her into the air, his most precious possession. 

And maybe that was the problem, for Dutch thought of her like she was something he owned, and in that breath, nothing she ever could have given him would have been enough.

One day as he sat reading, pawing his hands over the pages she had been feeling mischievous. 

“You know anything is edible.”

He looked up from his book, curious as to where she was going with this.

“Hmmmm,” he licked his lips hungrily.

She got up from where she sat and walked over to him, stood over him, placed her hands on his shoulders and applied just enough pressure that for a moment it was her who controlled him. Dutch gulped, looking up at the swelling in her bosom.

He smirked, “How will I ever get any plans made with you around, you’re my poison.”

She bent down and whispered in his ear, “You know, it’s the dose that makes the poison.” She sucked on the spot on his neck where his pulse could be felt and for a moment stayed like that, gently sucking as Dutch’s hands clasped her waist and then slapped her on the behind. She gave a moan and within minutes they were rolling around in bed, losing sight of time and all purpose. 

“You’re our lucky mascot, my guiding star you know that?” He asked sincerely as she mounted his hips and looked down at him sprawled on their cot. 

She smiled and bent down to kiss him, “Shhh silly.”

And she was both the poison and the remedy to Dutch, in the end those words would haunt her, she realised the dose of Dutch that she received had indeed, poisoned her. Like the foxglove, just enough would have been enough to numb pain, save her life and to give her purpose. But she’d overdosed on it and the flame that had burnt so brightly within her had all but turned to ashes within years. 

*

But in time, after Blackwater, things had started to go South, their relationship changed so slowly that she barely noticed what was happening until it was too late. 

At both Horseshoe Overlook and Clemens Point, things had relatively been the same, just the odd thing here and there, but she paid no attention to it. Of course there had always been a question in her mind, a fear that was starting to spread like ivy tendrils on an unloved building. The more she tried to ignore what was happening between them as well as to the gang as a whole, the darker the fears became.

She’d confided in Arthur mostly, he had reassured her, though he himself appeared to have his own demons and concerns about the future of the gang. This didn’t help, but at least she didn’t feel alone. There had been good days in Horseshoe Overlook and at Clemens Point, great days in fact, but her Dutch appeared to be ageing rapidly and in the end, her little legs just couldn’t keep up. 

Both herself and Arthur didn’t trust Micah, there was something about him that made her skin crawl and set her on edge. Watching Charles, Susan and Javier’s reactions with him she realised soon that it wasn’t just the two of them who felt like that. By the end, when she knew the truth, she had wished she had done or said something sooner. Hindsight is after all the most precious gift that she, nor any of them, would ever have. 

If Isla was being honest with herself, Micah’s betrayal had broken her heart but also she found it hard to place all blame on him, Dutch was not the saint he had sold himself to be when she had first met him. Her fists clenched when she thought too long on their characters, their nature, no amount of punching pillows would make it any easier. Mankind, we really are no better than animals, worse in fact. 

It was in those darker days when she begun to get closer to other members of the gang, Javier in particular would take her fishing or on small jobs as a distraction. Often the two of them would sit in silence, but she found his revolutionary heart much like her own, full of fire just waiting for a sign. The silent comfort they found in one another soon became her favourite place alongside having Dutch between her thighs. 

But things really started to turn when they left Clemens Point and entered the stale camp that was Shady Belle, their relationship wained, forgotten, lost in the fog that surrounded them and in the maze of trees. They would continue to be intimate, but it was fucking mostly, not love-making, it’s not that she hated that, sometimes, it was perfect, but she would have liked him to kiss her more often, to hold her after sex. When they fucked, he would forget about her, forget to reciprocate the pleasure. In the end, she got so used to it that when he did touch her or go down on her, she would forget the rest of the world. 

Her back would arch with pleasure, wishing she could hang in that moment forever. Those were the moments when he would call her pet names again, his love beyond all love. He loved her more than money he would say, more than anything, he would die for her… And she ate them up, every last lie, she knew the words were false, that she had praised Dutch, looked to him like a deity. This false god she had fallen on her hands and knees for, would crawl over broken glass for, he would be her end and still she loved him unconditionally. 

And in the end, even when she knew he was beyond saving, still she tried. She fought, with every last breath. 

“I can’t abandon him!” She had cried to John and Arthur as Sadie packed up their horses.

Arthur had shaken his head, not with anger nor disbelief, but the sorrow for what could have been. For the moment of tangency. It was a sorrow for the fact he couldn’t save her, just like she already knew in her heart she couldn’t save Dutch.

For when she was with him, dancing outside their tent, her face aglow from the campfire, opera playing, that was home. It were as if her ribcage were made of willow bark, sparrows had settled in to nest for Spring and moss had started to grow between the branches. Dutch was home. He had nested into her.

The first time they made love, felt like it like a lifetime ago in the moments before the final showdown, and yet she remembered all of it, every small movement, every beat of his heart and trace of his finger tips. 

The first time they had confessed their feelings for one another, she had entered his tent to speak about something trivial, at least that’s what the others would call it, that’s how they would remember it. Arthur though, Arthur would write in his journal that she entered for love, and that wasn’t a lie. She had entered into his tent to borrow a book, it was where they first found this common ground. He was was overjoyed to show her his personal collection and watched her closely as she pawed over his greatest treasures, gently opening them and inhaling the scent of leather. That was his scent. 

She would remember it years later, and when he was off in one of his rages, or worse, a fantasy, not a fantasy that involved him taking her against a wall, rather a fantasy about a plan, she would try to bring him home. Her chest was open to him, the birds sung, lonely now their children had taken flight, the heaviness of her heart that was only lifted when he was near. She would go to him, time and time again with a book she had acquired in town, clutching it to her breast, her dress pulled lower than she used to wear them. Cleavage more defined, her bosom exposed, overflowing, anything to gain his attention.

She’d sit beside him like this, book on her lap, fingers twirling in her hair, playfully resting her head on his shoulder, “Please,” she would beg into his ear, longing for a moment alone. And when he didn’t respond she’d sigh, praying to the goddess that he would listen to her, heed her pleas, “Dutch, please, be with me tonight.”

Dutch would shift uncomfortably, sigh, clearly irritated, “Not now!” Too often was his answer. 

There were times, not many, moments she could count on one hand, but that was enough. Times when she heard him mutter under his breath, “Damn woman,” as she walked away. 

Like a wasp, it stung, festered in her heart, turning it slowly into a fetid state. And like an untreated wound, it turned her cold, just like him, too often she would see him look at other women with the kind of lust he held once reserved for her only. And there were nights when he’d disappear completely, whilst the others in the camp never confirmed her worst fears, she knew he had taken comfort in the arms of other women. It was rare, true, but there had been a few moments when he appeared particular stressed that he would disappear into town and not return till the following morning, seemingly less pent up. 

He woke one night to find her straddled on top of him, “What are you doing?” He asked, unable to mask his annoyance. 

“This is the only way I can get you to look at me,” she’d replied woefully, no life left in her voice that had once been so soft it could have harkened larks. But she’d find once he was awake she couldn’t look him in the eye. 

She stared instead to the gap between the opening to the tent, the flicker of the campfire, the stars, anything was more appealing then, than staring into the eyes of the man she loved but no longer had.

She’d wanted to be powerful, a lioness in a lion’s den, to take control just once. But once she looked at him, she had been lost to his eyes. The silver now creeping through his moustache, his hair, her Dutch was getting old and foolish and it was breaking her heart. 

Though the tears had stung her eyes, it was nothing new, it had happened all the time.

“Dutch, we don’t need to sleep together, we don’t even need to kiss, I just want you to talk to me! We promised ourselves to one another remember? We promised we’d always look out for each other, I promised I’d never leave your side and I meant it. I’m here, you’re not alone you know that? If something is getting to you, please talk to me.” Every word she spoke hurt, because looking at the indifference on Dutch’s face, she knew he was barely there, so lost in his thoughts, whether it was worry, pride or guilt… There was a sin consuming him and the barrier he had built for himself to shut the world out, to shut her out, was made of wrought cast-iron, no amount of pretty language could break them.

He told himself he put up his defences to protect her, in reality it was a lie, the truth too painful to swallow. 

There were only two speeds when they fucked, there was painfully slow and loving, all tears and apologies, or there was hard and unrelenting. It was often the latter. Dutch would dominate almost always, because that’s what Dutch did, she could have predicated that. And it was how she liked it, over and over again. The control kept her in check. The control told her she loved him.

Always. The control he would show with Arthur and John. The discipline towards The Count. It was always the discipline which told her she was loved. And oh she would have done anything for him, she would have even gone as far as fucking John or one of the others for his pleasure. 

*

There was a time whilst at Shady Belle when nightmares filled her head after what happened to Kieran. She dreamt often that Dutch was a headless horseman, chasing her through the mist drenched woods.

She’d been wearing nothing but a thin, white, night gown, lace trimmed, the perfect material to see her pale, firm breasts underneath. Her nipples cold in the night, stood to attention like soldiers on a hill. In the dream she could never catch her breath. Could never run fast enough and oh how she wanted to save him from the nightmare. 

Twigs snapped underneath her bare feet, now covered in mud and dirt. She was revealed by the night in her truest form.. A long-eared owl flew overhead, ready to take the life of some innocent creature, for survival, that was what Dutch would say about the gang, their survival was dependant on taking lives.

The owl swopped down and caught a mouse, it’s talon piercing the creatures soft skin. No chance of escape, there was no kindness or mercy in the killing. As the mouse’s eyes dilate, it knows it cannot live another day, it watches the world from above as the owl carries it away and snow falls all around it. Splatters of blood fall to the ground in front of her, snow soon to cover them and let the world start again. 

The horseman would always catch her, his arms and chest covered in a thick carpet of fur. Her grandmother had warned her that men were like wolves, hungry, ravenous, always looking for their next meal.

And she knew in her dream she should run, should try to hide, but his scent, his black eyes, the way he looked at her, she knew this wolfman, knew somewhere within him there was a still beating heart. So she would approach the horse, arms held out and he would watch her. His hot breath hanging in the air, his horse not stirring. She would pull the sleeves of her dress down over her shoulders, her arms, she would step out naked into the snow and open herself up to him. 

As the horseman got down from his horse without a word, she would tilt her head, intrigued by him, the smell of death suddenly alluring. She knew what he wanted from her, she would lay in the snow, let her knees fall apart, undignified, exposing her sex, he would climb onto her, pinning her to the ground, his weight unbearable. His large hands holding her wrists captive above her head. He would slide into her with no warning, her teeth clenched at the pain from his engorged cock. 

As the horseman was about to devour her, she would awaken, dripping in sweat, screaming, untameable, wild, lost. And Dutch, it was always Dutch who was right there by her side. Soothing her, stroking her matted hair.

His eyes in the moonlight affixed on her and despite her fear, despite the comfort, there was always something in it for him. There had to be. Taste. He wanted to taste her, to devour her. Covered in sweat, glistening, she appeared to him far more delicious than any meal Pearson could cook up.

“Sweetheart, I’m here, I’m here, let me soothe you,” and Oh oh ohhhhhh how pretty his words were, how they slid from his silver tongue and how she gobbled them up. His sexual prowess, under the guise of care and concern. 

When she had told him about her grandmothers warning he had laughed, “Well am I supposed to hold back? not want to taste you.”

And Dutch loved to taste her.

It started with the lips, with her mouth, her delicate, pink tongue. The mixing of their saliva. 

It started with the neck, the collarbone, her porcelain breasts. 

Her thighs. Thick and unforgiving, enough to strangle a man with she had once joked.

“Dutch, you know, I could eat you for breakfast?” She’d said in a sultry manner.

They say there is nothing that can keep a man from his dinner, this was true of Dutch, when he wanted to eat her, he would take her. 

Her legs would part all too easily for him as he greedily grabbed and kissed her soft flesh. He would moan into her sex as his tongue worked effortlessly, sliding in and out of her, her hands buried in his hair. 

His finger would work expertly at her clit, moving in small, slow circles. That was how he knew she liked it best, yes. He would work her up into a frenzy from nothing, slowing building the warmth in her stomach. Sometimes when she was feeling more frisky she would wrap her thighs round him, holding him in close to her so he couldn’t move if he wanted to. At the same time she would push his head into her, forcing him to give her head. 

“Dutch….” Every time she said his name it was like she had waved a spell over him. And when she said it during sex, any power or authority Dutch thought he had, in that moment was gone. His name fell so readily, so pretty from her pursed lips. 

She wore rouge on her lips, she loved red, but knew what it made her look like, so that was reserved for parties or the bedroom. Red lipstick marks on his cock, that was what Dutch lived for. Sometimes when he’d bathed, he’d ask her to kiss his cock when she’d freshly applied lipstick, just so throughout the day he’d see the marks there and remember she was his. She’d wear lipstick on every day days that was a subtle matte pink. It made her lips come alive.

Every time Dutch pulled her into his arms, he thought of her like an apple, freshly picked from the tree, juicy and sweet, needing to be tasted. 

And, in the early days, he was patient and he was good. She’d sit beside him, watching him trace lines of paper, his finger would caress the page as he read so she could follow the words. Sometimes she would sit on his lap as he read to her, and he would worship her like a princess.

There was a book she loved in particular, Wuthering Heights, one year for her birthday he had bought her a copy that was hers to cherish, leather-bound and illustrated. Then he had sat patiently on their cot as she read the words to him, correcting her when she stuttered. If she got flustered and cried, he would brush her hair with a rose gold brush that had been a gift when they were first together. He would run his hands through her hair, massage her scalp as he cooed, “Shhhh sweet girl.”

If she got too frustrated with what she was doing and threw a tantrum, he would pat his lap gently. The first time they did this it had both frightened and intrigued her. “You must learn my love,” he spoke softly.

She had laid across his lap, ever the obedient student, so he could spank her, sometimes it was sexual, sometimes not. Though the fear had been real at first, she melted into him, each slap of his palm across her soft flesh made her feel needed, wanted, loved. 

Sometimes he would make her count out loud, after every number his palm would come crashing down. Sometimes she would act up, squirm underneath him, “Now, now, princess,” he would say softly and brush her hair, “You must be patient.”

The first time she called him daddy, it took her by surprise, Dutch had just chuckled, “Daddy ay? Oh yes, I could be your daddy.”

Her cheeks burnt was shame but when she called him that, when his palm connected to her skin, she felt stronger, bolder, more certain. And even in the later days when things got bad and they barely had sex, it would only take for him to lay her across his lap once again for her to believe in him, to know just how cherished and loved she was. Even if Dutch didn’t realise it. 

As time wore on, Arthur truly had become like a brother to her, always looking out for her, sometimes they argued, but he was always there to soothe her when she and Dutch argued.

Dutch had loved her in abundance, had loved her fruitfulness, her nature was kind. But then it was her nature that would betray her in the end.

*

The first time her stomach had started to swell with child he had never been more proud. They were at Clemens Point, she had loved it there, the storms on distant shores, the rising and setting of the sun, and the fishing had been perfect. 

She didn’t announce her pregnancy straight away, she decided it was better for a few months to pass, until she was certain. 

Dutch had announced the news round the campfire one evening, much to the delight of most of the camp. Micah didn’t seem too impressed, but then she had expected that, he had never shown her much care or thought, if anything a child was just another mouth to feed, a nuisance, a distraction from money and trouble. 

The women of the camp had all offered their support, Abigail in particular. The night was full of drinking and song, Javier had promised to sing to her child, Tilly would teach them dominoes, Arthur had promised to take them fishing when they were old enough. The men had all been so proud in that moment and shown such care. Charles had offered to do anything to help make her comfortable… 

It was in those months that Dutch had been his old self again, hugging her from behind when they were in bed, his hand loosely trailing down to her stomach and stroking her slowly swelling belly. He would kiss her and talk to his unborn child, the one who would carry on his legacy. 

It was three months into the pregnancy when mother nature came to call and take back what had been so briefly hers. When she declined the woman’s greatest wish. They had been sat round the campfire, laughing and singing when she felt a stabbing pain. She tried to ignore it, convince herself blindly it was just her baby growing. But when she couldn’t take it anymore she stood to reveal blood seeping through her dress and felt it trickle down her thighs. 

She had run then, ran as fast as she could, it was in that moment she felt like she had been living in a dream which had slowly turned into a nightmare. A fawn, doe-eyed, innocent, caught up in the middle of a battle between beasts, she ran as fast as her legs would carry her. 

Dutch had run after her, finding her sat under a tree, cradling a dead sparrow. She held it so beautifully, with such love in her arms, like a child she cried over it, tears falling onto it’s soft, downy feathers. 

She had heard his approach, had looked up to find his eyes as lost as hers, “I’m sorry Dutch, I’m sorry.”

He’d knelt beside her, stroked her cheek, “Nothin’ to be sorry for darlin’” He kissed her gently.

On reflection, that was probably it, Blackwater had been the trigger for their decline, but since the first miscarriage, things had gotten worse. They weren’t as close, not like they used to be. 

Again, the sex became more animalistic. She swallowed him whole, her throat opening for him, his fingers tracing patterns across her skin as if it were lace. Her pale skin would flush hot at his touch, the blue veins on her chest, like rivers heading towards her breasts, which tumbled and crashed over rocks when he came inside her. 

He had promised her the world, a world without recourse, a world where she no longer need be afraid. And all he gave her in the end was dust, a dream that could never be realised for his stubbornness and hot-headed ways.

Around the camp fire at night Arthur and Charles would sit beside her in silence as they listened to Javier play guitar and sing. Sometimes Arthur would put a reassuring arm round her or rest it on her shoulder, Charles would offer to talk to Dutch for her and Javier… As Javier played guitar he would look across the fire at her, lost in his own world and yet staring at her through the flames, how the fire reflected in her eyes, there were moments when he forgot himself. 

How many times had one of the other’s tried to talk her out of it, reminded her that he had been with Susan once and let her go. Perhaps if she broke things off with him, the love he once had for her would be strong enough for him to allow her to stay in the camp. There were other men who would love her better, friends who were concerned about her. For a moment she allowed herself to dream, to believe that there could be another life for her. She would nod along, thank them for their time and care, and then the dream would be over. 

There was an evening after a particularly bad row in Shady Belle that she was sat in their tent, the wind howled and frame shook, she curled up into her blankets and buried her face in her knees. 

“Isla, are you okay?” She heard Javier’s voice, just above the sound of the wind.

She didn’t know how to respond, she didn’t wish to lie, but was afraid to tell the truth. She took only a second to decide what to do, in the end she wasn’t okay and longed for the company. 

“Come in,” she instructed.

She heard his footsteps enter the tent and felt the cot sink under his weight as he sat down, she turned around, still laying down, with knees still up to her chest. She looked up at him briefly and he reached out to place the backs of his fingers against her cheek.

“You’re so cold,” he said, every part concerned. 

“Javier….” The words left her lips so perfectly, her face sunken, eyes cast downwards. 

And Javier had wanted her, but then could never betray Dutch. There was a love that swelled in his heart for her, they had gotten on well as friends since the early days of her being in the gang. They had often patrolled the camp together, sat up keeping watch together, he taught her more about firing a gun and fighting than Dutch ever had. 

Dutch had liked to keep her pretty, to keep her pure, all books and music and art and curly hair tumbling over naked shoulders. But Javier, like the others, knew the game they played was dangerous and should anything happen, she would need to know how to defend herself.

It wasn’t that Dutch had been against her owning a weapon, he had bought her a gun when they first met, had it engraved with a wolf. He had taken her out shooting, but that was all her lessons with him amounted to. Javier was different. 

“It isn’t fair,” she had wanted to ball up her hands and punch him, punch her bed, rip down the walls of her tent and run into the night, the wild, get caught up by the wind and carried away somewhere else.

But she didn’t, instead, she let her tears fall and looked to Javier for comfort. He stroked her hair, “I promised Dutch I would look after you,” he spoke softly. 

She snorted, “Sure, so suddenly he cares about me.”

Javier shook his head, “Dutch, has always cared about you,” he paused, searching his mind for the right words, “He’s just under a lot of stress.”

And she had believed him, as she always did, looking back when she was older, had she known then what she knew in her dying days. She’d of fucked Javier there and then. Let him trail kisses along her breast, eat her out and fuck her hard from behind, pulling on her hair, all grace and dignity discarded.

Instead she propped herself up, leaned in and kissed his lips, gently, softly, just once and pulled back.

“All I want is some damn warmth in this world, that too much to ask?” And the words pained her, it stung for her to confess to him this desire, how broken she was on the inside. 

Javier sighed, as he had done many times before. His loyalty to Dutch was unfaltering, he could never of hurt him, even if he had wanted to sweep her up into his arms.

Javier found he was unable to answer her, still shocked that she had kissed him, all he could so was stare at her, wait for something to happen. But he found he was so lost in her eyes, so lost for he had no clue how to comfort her. 

“I see that look in your eyes Javier Escuella,” she said breaking the silence. 

Javier cocked his head to the site, “What?”

“Pity,” her face remained emotionless.

Javier was unable to answer, because he knew the words she spoke were true.

“Ahhh mierda, I’m sorry,” he said, had he really meant to be that obvious with his reactions to her plight?

They left it there for that night, he tucked her up, kissed her cheek and sat beside her, rubbing her back until she fell asleep. It was only when he was certain she had drifted off to sleep that he left with a sigh, hoping that the dreams she had would at least offer some comfort and break from the cruel world she found herself in. 

*

In the weeks that passed she would shake her head as she always did, saunter over to Javier and sit beside him, sometimes she would drunkenly climb onto his lap. Imagine for a moment that it was him she loved, Javier could be rough, but at least there was still passion in the man, passion for life, for her… Dutch had noticed a few times, but they never kissed, it never went any further and so he just shot warning glances in their direction. He too had become adept at lying to himself and telling himself everything was okay. 

Her offer was always there, always ready to talk to him, to sleep in his arms, he knew that, but the longer he went without saying anything and the worse things got, the harder it became for him to open up to her. He tried to bury his emotions, told himself it was for the best, that she loved him, but right now love wasn’t his concern.

Whilst at Shady Belle she had fallen pregnant once again, her and Dutch had a proper bedroom and so, at least for a few weeks, before Kieran’s death, they had slept together frequently and acted like love birds once again.

Whether it was the horror of what happened to Kieran, or the paranoia that plagued her heart when Dutch, Arthur, Bill, Javier and Micah went missing, the pregnancy didn’t last. Just like the first time she had a few moments of believing she could be a mother, that maybe a child would fix Dutch… That fatherhood would somehow make him a better man, the man he once was.

When she felt the familiar stabbing pain and saw the blood pool in her lap, she made the decision that she wouldn’t try again, she was not destined for motherhood. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but somehow, in accepting it she came to terms with the bed she had made for herself. 

Charles had looked after her then, held her close, told her stories of his youth. He had taken her with him hunting to distract her not only from the loss of her child but from the whereabouts of Dutch and the others. When Charles stroked her cheek and brushed her hair for her at night, refusing to leave her tent until she was asleep, she felt she could cope then. But the moment he was gone, she’d never felt so lonely. 

It was unbearable for her, yet she found she had to be strong for the others, to do nothing but cry and stress all day would do no good for the remaining members of the camp. For it wasn’t just those who were missing, with Hosea and Lenny lost to the sands of time and John locked away, hope seemed like a childhood fantasy. 

But she, Charles, Sadie they had to stay strong for the others, provide comfort and words of encouragement and so in a way, 

She missed Dutch terribly, missed him holding her in his arms, missed the way he smelt, the cigars he smoked. She missed watching him read from the corner of her eye, she missed the way they still occasionally danced and it reminded her of when he first swept her off her feet. She missed Arthur more than she cared to admit, her old friend who was always there for her. And Javier, her heart hurt when she thought of him, sometimes she would close her eyes and believe she could hear him singing or the soft gentle strum of his guitar. Though she couldn’t play, she’d picked it up several times and sat with it in her lap, finding herself talking to him without meaning to. 

The day they returned, she froze on the spot, pinching herself to check she was still breathing. She’d run to Arthur and Javier first, hugging them, kissing them both on the cheek, terrified if she let go they would slip through her fingers, fade away and that this was some cruel trick her grief was playing on her. 

She looked up and between their two shoulders she saw Dutch, he looked more tired and dishevelled then she’d ever known, her heart swelled for a moment and she begun to cry. “It’s okay Isla,” Arthur had reassured her, “Go to him, he needs you.”

She ran into Dutch’s arms, he lifted her up and her legs wrapped around his waist, when they kissed her heart was mended, the elation in that moment knew no bounds. He had taken her to their tent, still in his arms and laid her down onto the cot, “We have so much time to make up for,” he muttered in between kisses. 

And so the days passed, turning into weeks, months… So the seasons swept them up and brought change, never a moment to breathe from the dance of life. After Hosea died, that was when she noticed the biggest difference in him. Hosea had been the one that had held Dutch together, made sure he didn’t go too far. In a way he had been Dutch’s sanity.

And then Arthur and Sadie brought John home and the chaos that had been kept at bay, it didn’t creep in slowly, no, it poured down like torrential rain and wrecked havoc. Washing away all that was good that had remained, that had clung on like a gossamer in the wind carried by a light breeze, now thrown to the ground and lost in the fields of time. 

*

There was a moment, late one evening in Beaver Hollow, by this point, any dream she had had of a better tomorrow had died along with the many members of the gang they had lost. Her faith in Dutch was all but lost, yet she clung onto it desperately, hoping that the nightmarish memories of the past might be crushed once again by his love. 

She had sauntered, standing tall into their tent, Dutch was sat on the cot, grave, head in hands and oh how she had tried to comfort him, tried to turn his beating heart from that of panicked canaries to song birds free. She had done everything she was supposed to do, to be a good woman, the perfect woman. She had stroked and smoothed his hair, whispered every good word, kissed his cheek. She had taken her clothes off slowly, stood in nowt but her underwear, but Dutch wouldn’t look at her. He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t anything, he was a husk of a man.

When she had forced him to look, all she saw reflected in his eyes were her own, lost, dim, a dying light as the candle flickered into nothingness, bearing back the years she had given to him. 

Her faith diminished, “Quia peccavi” she whispered. Admitting and wanting to repent for her sins to a god that wouldn’t answer. And Dutch had stared beyond her, he didn’t recognise her in that moment, two perfect strangers meeting for the first time, it was then that the spark was irrefutably gone.

“Dutch we need to talk,” she spoke softly. “I can’t help you if you can’t help yourself,” she bit down on her lower lip, the loneliness had been killing her for so long. 

She was certain he no longer loved her, he had disappeared for the night not that long ago and she’d heard Micah talking the following day about the women they had paid for. Micah had talked loudly, shooting a glance to her just to be cruel. In the past she’d let such fancies go, but not this time, if Dutch could seek comfort elsewhere, so could she. Yet, something still held her back, wanting to give him yet another unearned chance. 

Dutch looked back at his book and ignored her, it felt as if her heart was in a vice, about to be crushed at any second, but she refused to let him see her cry. 

“I will only ask you once,” and her voice didn’t tremble as she spoke, so certain was she now of herself. Grown into womanhood in front of the wolf who had stolen her away.

“Do you want me tonight? Or do I seek the comfort I need in the arm’s of another?”

Dutch remained silent, lips shut, internally he screamed, a sob built in his chest, ready to explode and so he said nothing. They didn’t speak about what happened that night for a long time, though he guessed, strange she felt, for the jealous type, he never held it against her. In the end, it was one of the nicest things he had done for her. 

There had been moments when she considered intervening in his plans, providing her own thoughts and suggestions, in the early days he had listened to her, now she was just a distant noise that barely registered. So she had stayed silent, but as she turned to leave the tent there was something she could hold back no longer, “What you’re doing right now, your involvement with Eagle Flies, it’s wrong…I,” she paused, took a moment to consider her words, “I want to believe that you’re helping him because you care, a part of me believes you do. But,” she sighed, “There’s always something in it for you, I’m not even sure you know you’re doing it.”

She had left his tent then, conflicted, she didn’t run, or make a lot of fuss, just smiled sadly. There would never be a child. Not for them, they weren’t meant to be parents.

She ran, still only in her underwear, past Arthur and John, ran into the woods, gun in hand just in case she met anyone. 

“Meā culpā….” she cried against a tree, sinking to her knees in the dirt and leaves. She dreamt of England, dreamt of home, of the church where she and her family had worshipped. She dreamt of the University she was supposed to have attended, of her siblings, of all the books she was going to write and discoveries in biology she was going to make. She knew she had lost it all, her life had become meaningless and no god would answer her now. Not after she had turned her back so violently against him.

Javier hadn’t seen her run into the woods, but when he appeared in camp, Arthur had laid a hand on his shoulder and told him where Isla had gone, “You should go after her, you’re the closest save for Dutch,” Arthur paused and shook his head, “Maybe closer than Dutch.”

Javier had thanked Arthur, though the two of them hadn’t been close recently, a cold wind had descended on all the camp, turned those who remained ugly and untrusting. There was a paranoia now that poisoned the air and acted against any camaraderie that had the potential to bloom once again. 

Javier ran into the woods, “Isla,” he had called, panicked for her.

He saw her then, a heap on the floor, shivering, her legs covered in dirt and he had dropped down beside her, “Querida.” he stroked her face.

She didn’t need to ask him for it, he knew what she wanted, could feel the heat from her thighs, though shivering from the cold of night. He placed his warm hands on her skin, “You’re so cold,” and with that he had pulled her into his arms, holding her strong, fighting off the doubt and pain that threatened to destroy her. 

Javier was hesitant at first, but so much had changed and in the end he took her, She would of had him against the tree but he insisted going back to his tent when no one was looking.

Once away from the prying eyes of others they had tumbled into the cot like young lovers, hands exploring one another’s bodies, hungry for flesh, for something to fill the void they both felt. His lips were so hungry, needy against her open and her lips had parted so eagerly for him, to allow his tongue to taste her. 

He’d insisted on going down on her before they fucked, wanting to make sure she’d climaxed at least once before he took his pleasure. It reminded her of Dutch, how he’d been when they were younger, how keen he’d been to please her, there was a moment where she thought about stopping but Javier’s lips were kissing the inside of her thighs and the wetness pooled between her legs. Her hands found their way far too easily to his hair as his tongue dipped between her legs and his lips engulfed her. 

She couldn’t help but lift her hips, rut against his face as his hands squeezed her fleshy thighs, his name spilling silently from her lips as she came. 

Before he entered her, they kissed again, playful, youthful, rolling around and nipping one another’s necks. 

Javier’s hand clasped over her mouth to muffle her moans as he slid into her. Her legs wrapped around his waist allowing him to penetrate her deeper. Once they got into a rhythm he removed his hand which was quickly replaced by his lips, kissing her as he rode her to orgasm. 

The sex was full of love, he helped her to reach orgasm three times that night, taking care with every stroke of his fingers, he had opened himself to her. The first woman he had laid with in a while, the first he had loved since home.

“Javier…I think, I love you,” she said to him afterwards, catching him off guard as she curled up in his arms. Her head laid on his chest for a long time afterwards, listening to his heart go from frenzied like a beast in heat, to calm like the river. 

“Shhh now hermosa, less of that,” and it had pained him as he spoke the words. She cried into his chest but had understood perfectly, nothing more could happen, nothing more could be said or done. 

“Javier, promise me… promise me you’ll look after me.” Before he had a chance to answer she continued, “I know we can never do this again, I know that I have no right to ask this of you.”

“Shhh, I promise, I promise I will do everything within my power to protect you,” he kissed her head.

The following morning, she had emerged from his tent, Arthur, Bill, Susan… they had all seen, they all knew what had happened, and no one spoke a word of it, not to them, not to Dutch, they kept the secret. 

*

Dutch knew what she and Javier had done, he wasn’t even angry, he didn’t complain, he just took it. He was jealous, that went without saying, he was fiercely protective of the things he loved, and he resented himself for allowing her to leave him the night before, for not opening up. Jealousy coursing through his veins, threatening to boil over any second if Javier was to look at her just once more.

When he left his tent, determined to seek out whether there was any truth in their affections for one another, he saw Isla sat by the campfire, book in hand. It was the book he bought her years ago for her birthday, she was reading intently. He studied her for a moment, realised it had been such a long time since he had drawn her, such a long time since they had slept together. He didn’t question her or Javier that day, he never did. He simply lit up a cigar and sat near her, basking in her tranquility. 

That night he even started to talk to her about the tram crash, that he hadn’t felt himself since, that he was lost without Hosea. It had been her turn now to comfort him, to kiss his knuckles as she felt the love swell in her breast for him. Guilt regarding her night with Javier had started to consume her. 

“Dutch,” she had said nervously one night.

They were laying in one another’s arms, her head on his chest, this was the place where she felt the most safe. He was stroking her hair gently, one of his arms wrapped around her and pulling her in tightly to him. She started to cry into him, silently sobbing, hoping he wouldn’t hear.

“What is it my love?” He asked calmly. 

“It’s just…” she started, speaking through the tears that fell so easily.

“Shhhh take your time.”

She took several deep breaths and propped herself up so she could look down into Dutch’s eyes, “I want to apologise. I know the pressure you’ve been under, losing your oldest friend…I.” She blinked back the tears. Dutch had been a far from perfect lover to her, his words regarding her inability to provide him with a child had had deep. The months of silence, lack of physical contact had driven her near mad, but, but she hated herself for the fact she had allowed to be consumed by momentary weakness. 

She loved him more than the thought of home, wanted to nestle into him once again and build a house, not of straw or wood, not of bricks. She wanted a strong foundation for their future, but it was crumbling in front of her eyes.

“I am sorry,” she felt bile rising in her throat, she knew Dutch was no fool, he’d have realised what Javier and her did some time ago, “Know that I was a fool, that I love you, in a moment of weakness, I slept with Javier…but, but it was my fault not his, I led him on, I…”

Dutch held up a hand, “Please stop.”

She closed her eyes and sobbed, feeling the bile rise in her throat, mankind’s eternal enemy, the mind, manifesting itself as this unbearable pain, “I’m sorry.”

She felt his hand warm against her cheek, felt his weight shift as he pulled her down to him, “Don’t apologise,” he said softly, “I never should have neglected you like that, you tried to get me to open up, but I’m a stubborn old fool.” He gave a small, mirthless laugh, “You know Hosea was the only one I could be that honest with?”

She didn’t respond, just opened her eyes to look down at him, his mysterious, dark eyes that she had fallen so easily in love with, taken in by his warmth and strength. 

He kissed her softly and when he pulled away explained, “I haven’t been myself of late, I think the tram crash did more damage than I’d care to admit… I, I am the one who should be sorry, I will do better I promise.” He kissed her again, arms snaking round her. 

In so many ways it was like a trap, she believed him, he believed him. His words were not lies, just love, honesty in such a rare moment like the passing of a comet across the sky. But a comet passing is a rare phenomena that can last a few days once every 80 years or so. His words were not lies, he fully intended to let the past die, but Dutch was not as strong as he thought he was.

*

And so they had several weeks of peace, she had always known it was too good to be true, but ever the optimist, she told herself to live in the moment. There things the gang were involved in now, they were so close to reaching their goal of leaving for Tahiti, but like a house of cards, she knew it was only one mistake for the whole thing to come crashing down around them. And so she enjoyed Dutch’s company once more, sat on his lap as he read to her, he spanked her again, kissed her, bought her a new book, told her he loved her more than once a day. The book he had bought her was The Picture of Dorian Grey, by Oscar Wilde, how appropriate she had reflected later in life, almost farcical. 

He made a vow that he would try harder with her, try something new in the bedroom to rekindle their love and make them feel close again. Only this in itself was a lie, Dutch van der Linde wasn’t going to suggest something that was all for her, to worship her and shower her with love.

Dutch was going to suggest something designed to give him more pleasure, and more than that, it was a sadist act, to assert his dominance over her after what Javier had done. Dutch didn’t blame her or Javier, no, that was true, but he felt she was tainted now, somehow ruined. The cracks born of jealousy were beginning to show. 

But he wanted the connection they once had to be mended. It was like a tapestry dictating a long tale, there would be good times and bad, occasionally threads came loose. 

“How about we try something different tonight?” He drawled across the tent at her.

“Different, what like?” She sat up, propping herself up on her elbow. Before Dutch spoke she had been daydreaming, ashamed to admit it was the thought of Javier’s lips that was making her blush and grin in the dark. But the moment Dutch spoke, she banished the thought. 

“Like…” It was clear from the tone of voice he knew exactly what it was he wanted, though he seemed nervous to say it. He came at her with those predator eyes and sat in between her legs, pinning her waist down with his own weight.

“She could almost hear a slur in his voice, whilst Dutch enjoyed drinking whiskey, he wasn’t one for getting drunk, it was one of his finest qualities. But tonight, the slur should have been a warning to put a stop to the chaos that was about to unfurl like a fern deep in the woods, quick, the kind of plant that could take two forms in the space of a day. But how was she to know?

“Okay Dutch, what kinda position….” Isla was game, always for him, determined to prove herself, her legs always ready to spread for him. 

“I ain’t talking about position as such…”

She could sense he had been nervous, that was strange for Dutch, it took a moment but she realised what he meant. That was why he had been drinking. 

She had quivered under him in anticipation, “Oh….” the way she breathed was enough for him to want to rip the clothes from her.

“It’s okay, it’ll be okay, I just gotta get you ready is all,” he reassured her. 

She blushed, “Okay…I trust you.”

Dutch could have asked for anything, a threesome with her and Arthur, her and Sadie, he could have asked her to watch her and Javier fuck, she’d have said yes. She vied for his attention, needing that like the air she breathed, needing it the way she needed water. 

He grabbed some oil from the bedside table, he had parted her legs so gently, going against the throbbing of his groin. He placed a finger at her lower entrance and then slipped it inside her. 

“Ahhh,” she let a slow soft moan escape as he pushed through the wall of muscle. She felt herself relax, he pushed a further finger into her and then pumped in and out a few times before adding a third.

Dutch bent down and kissed her tenderly, the taste of whiskey still fresh on his lips. the anticipation she felt reminded her of the first time they made love, her hands reached up to his face as he tasted her hips. When they parted she noticed she was shaking, but Dutch’s voice soothed her just as it always did. 

“Dutch, I think I’m ready now,” when she spoke her voice had quivered so, in a manner which told her lover she wasn’t quite ready.

Dutch unbuckled his belt and let his trousers drop to the floor, he positioned himself by her.

She gasped, even though she knew how big he was, this was different. He lubed up his member with the oil and pulled at himself a few times making sure he was nice and hard. 

He thrust into her slowly, “That okay?”

She bit her lip not nodded. Her eyes watered, she clenched her fists in the bedsheet, bit down on her lip. She closed her eyes and imagined it was Javier, he wasn’t quite as thick as Dutch, but he was longer. 

“Look at me,” Dutch grunted.

She didn’t comply, in that moment she was so lost in thought, lost in the pain that her eyes didn’t open. That had been her biggest mistake, she had been with Dutch for long enough to know that when he asked for something, you had to do it, save hurting his pride and causing suspicion. 

“Look at me!” This time Dutch barked so loudly that her eyes flew open. 

“You’re thinking about him aren’t you?” Dutch sneered as he thrust into her. It was as if a switch had been flicked in his mind, he had gone from being the loving Dutch she had fallen so easily for, to a monster in a matter of seconds. 

“No, no, never!’ She lied, suddenly panicked. How could this man who claimed to love her have gone from a moment of tender preparation and kisses to this beast in front of her.

He was every part the wolf from her nightmares now. 

“Don’t lie to me!” He barked as he continued to fuck her harder. 

She shook her head, thrashing her arms as she did so, “Please believe me,” she let out a moan as he thrust into her again, she hated herself for it, for enjoying the pleasure at the same time as being so angry with him. 

Dutch looked hungrily at her and continued at the same pace, “Didn’t I tell you not to lie girl,” he spat, his hands now going to her throat. She had loved to be choked by him, loved it when his fingers laced around her neck, but this was different, the pressure was increased.

“I’m not a girl, I’m a God damn woman, and you will treat me as such,” she choked. 

He raised his hand to her and for a moment she believed he would strike her, “Dutch my love, please!” She screamed, panicked. 

He held his hand above her, not striking. Dutch had vowed never to hurt a woman, though that had changed in Blackwater. He had never raised a fist to a woman he loved, he remembered that then. But didn’t lower his hand all the same. 

She saw light as the flap of the tent opened, Javier entered with Arthur stood behind.

“Dutch!” Javier shouted.

Dutch turned to the side, he lowered his hand, her cheeks burnt with shame. A sly, wicked smile spread across Dutch’s face as he thrust into her hard again, not breaking eye contact with Javier. Dutch continued to fuck her as the others stood in disbelief. 

“Go, please, I don’t want you to see me like this,” she pleaded with them both.

“Are you okay Isla?” Javier asked.

She nodded, lying once again and through tears she spoke, “Go, I beg you.”

Javier and Arthur, though reluctant, bowed, “We’ll be stood right outside, don’t you dare hurt her,” Arthur said, clearly disgusted. 

She was glad that they had come into the tent in a way, glad that they were there incase anything happened. She was also glad that they didn’t hang around, that they didn’t intervene anymore, this was between her and Dutch. 

When Dutch had finished and spilt his seed into her, he had removed himself, showing her no after-care, giving her no kisses or reassurance. He didn’t help her clean up. After she had dressed herself she approached him. He was sat at the end of the cot, reading a book, acting like nothing had happened. 

She slapped him hard across his left cheek, “Fuck you Dutch van der Linde, this was supposed to mend us…but you fucked it up, again!” She pulled her skirts down and stormed out of the tent, past Arthur and Javier.

She knew then, that there were many things in life that could be fixed with love, this wasn’t one of them. Their relationship was too broken to save, but she had come such a long way with him

She caught Javier’s eye as she left the tent and he followed her to the camp edge, held her while she cried.

“Should I leave him Javier?” 

Javier sighed, “I think you’d break him, you know he loves you…but, if he raises a hand to you again.”

“I know,” but as she spoke the words, she wasn’t sure what it was she knew anymore. As a child she had been so certain of herself, believed that life, like fairy tales was all happy endings, that she would meet a guide, a fairy godmother of sorts and that things would become clear. But they very rarely were, the older she became, the mirkier the water. 

*

If she thought that it was only now in Beaver Hollow that their relationship was ruined, she was lying to herself. She recalled a time back in Clemens Point, after the first miscarriage when she broke for the first time.

“Look at me! Look at me,” She’d cried, stood up to her waist in water. Stood in the lake, fish swimming round her, her skin orange from the setting sun. A shiver had shot up her spine like a lighting rod, more than once this happened but she refused to move. Barefoot. Broken. Unforgiving. She stood in the sand, stones and sediment, waited for her love to rescue her.

“What in the hell are you doing woman?” Dutch shouted, he hadn’t sounded angry, not exactly. More confused. Dutch cared, she knew that, she knew he was capable of love, she knew this when she watched him from afar studying blue jays, talking to the dog Cain that Jack was so enamoured with. It was in the way he kissed her, even if it was missing from his speech. 

“I need you to look at me!” She had screamed through tears.

Dutch didn’t care that the rest of the camp would hear, that they were undoubtedly watching, for the first time. Dutch didn’t have a plan. 

In the end he had wadded out into the water, collected her in his arms, wet skirts and all. Carried her to the safety of their tent, ordered Miss Grimshaw to run a bath for her. He had watched her through the night, carried her through her fever. 

In the middle of her fever, she had been muttering, repeating the same things over and over, “Daddy look after me, don’t let me die…” later when the fever broke, “I was supposed to be someone,” she cried. 

Dutch hadn’t left her side the night of the fever. He recalled this moment as he sat in his tent in Beaver Hollow, sat with the shame at having nearly hit her, sat with the horror of what he had done in front of Arthur, a man he called son, in front of Javier, the man he could so easily loose her too.

He put his head in his hands and wept, “Oh mother what have I become,” he muttered to himself. Appalled at his own behaviour, he recalled another not so pleasant memory that haunted him. 

There had been another night, in Shady Belle, during a storm, after a plan hadn’t gone the way it was supposed to. There was one horrid night, the air was thick with electricity and spirits were high for all the wrong reasons. The camp was swamped with mud. Rage encircled the camp like a hyena circling it’s prey. And at the centre of the circle, there she was, innocence and solitude. 

“Isla are you coming to bed?” But the way Dutch spoke, it wasn’t a question, more of a demand, she knew that.

She was the last one by the campfire, the others were slowly drifting, but she found herself unable to move away from the warmth of the burning embers. Dutch’s voice behind her, like an angry fire god, demanding more of her than she was able to give. So much of her life had been snuffed out by him, a fire smothered of oxygen, that when she looked at her skin, all she imagined were ashes about to be scattered in the wind. 

“Did you hear me?” He asked, his voice raised now

“I heard you Dutch, I’ll be there, soon.” Her voice was void of all emotion.

She heard him stomp off, purposefully making a lot of noice as he went, muttering, not so silently under his breath about how unwieldily she’d become. 

Reluctantly she stood up, she looked to where Javier and Charles were sleeping and imagined how nice it would be instead to curl up in between the two of them. How much safer and loved she would feel by the two men who had become such dear friends. 

She walked to her and Dutch’s tent, inhaled and exhaled deeply before stepping inside and clenched her fists at her side, determined to confront Dutch about what had been bothering her so greatly. 

When she entered the tent, he didn’t look up from his book, just continued to read as if she were invisible. This was how it had been for such a long time, on and off. There were times despite the fact that they slept in the same cot, that she doubted whether he loved her, that she wasn’t even sure if they were together anymore. 

She sighed, resigned to the fact that this was her life now, yet, not wiling to give up hope, “Dutch, you can talk to me. I just want to know what’s going on inside that head of yours, I can help you know.”

Silence. It was the silence that killed her.

“Will you not say anything? Not even have the curtesy to look at me?”

And oh how Dutch had wanted to, his hands were trembling as he held tightly to the book, fingernails digging into the leather with anger, not at her but at himself. How had it gotten to this? To the point where he could no longer open up to the woman he loved? What had happened to him, to them? Their relationship was on the same convoluted and tragic path that the gang appeared to be on, round and round it goes. The cycle was breaking him.

“Please Dutch I can help!” She cried this time and stomped her feet on the ground.

Silence. And that was when she broke, the weeks, months of letting it go. 

“You don’t touch me anymore,” she had said without warning, stood defiantly, fists still clenched at her sides. 

Dutch didn’t look up from his book, but she gathered from his expression that he was no longer reading, of course he was listening. There was almost a slight smirk on his face which suggested he was going to enjoy this, he enjoyed acting, playing a part. Of course she had learnt this in the early days, Dutch was a man who played up to an audience. He would act smarter than he was, ever vigilant with appearing like the perfect leader, despite his ever more obvious flaws. 

“Dutch will you look at me?” She screamed. 

Again, silence, acting, nothing inside the tent moved.

She took a step forward, “Really, this is what you’re going to do to me? I thought you loved me,” she spat. 

She was determined not to lose her cool in front of him, to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he had damaged her, moulded her into what he wanted her to be. 

She marched across the tent to him, grabbed the book from his hands and in that moment it took any remaining restraint she had not to slap him across the face with it, instead she slammed the book down on the cot beside him.

“You’re a fucking pig Dutch van der linde you know that? A fucking pig,” she screamed now, tears in her eyes. 

There had been a time when she had told herself she was strong, that she would remain strong no matter what and that she would never let him see this side of her, never let him witness the doubt. She reserved her tears for when she was alone, or for when she was confiding in Arthur, Javier, Charles or Mary-Beth. They were her go-to’s, they were her support network. 

She had promised herself that just as Dutch played a part, she too would play a part of dutiful partner, she wouldn’t let the cracks show and break in front of him like a china doll. 

But the rage had consumed her, she was unable to escape it in that moment, just how sly and pleased with himself he looked, did he not love her at all?

“I hate you,” she said through gritted teeth, “You think you’re so fucking special don’t you, this great leader, you’re a fraud you know that? Half your plans are shit, you don’t care about others, all you care about is yourself and I see you, I see you Dutch van der Linde, I see you and into you and through you and I know your secrets you know that?”

She paused then, shocked at her own admissions to him, she took a deep breath and waited for the inevitable barrage of abuse to tumble from his mouth. 

Dutch. Lost for words. Dutch, silent. Dutch in a rage with himself did the one thing he never wanted to do, “You? You couldn’t even give me a damn son!” He snapped, like a crocodile’s jaws round young prey, the damage was done. No matter how wide he opened his jaw afterwards to apologise, to blame the booze, to blame everyone but himself.

She’d stopped talking, stopped moving, stopped breathing. He had followed suite. Until the day he died, he would never be able to forgive himself for allowing those words to tumble from his mouth. And so easily, so readily, so stressed.

It was one of the few times she had backed away from him, left his tent for the night and sought comfort in the arms of another man. It wasn’t for sexual gratification, neither herself, nor Arthur would have done that to Dutch. But she couldn’t bare to look at him, instead she went to Arthur’s cot and slid behind him, pulling the blankets up around her neck and crying into the small of his back until sleep took her.

“Listen…I’m sorry. I’m sorry okay.” He repeated the words in a way that made her feel this was how he was dealing with the situation, the gravity of what he had said, the more times he repeated himself the more he could believe it. 

“I don’t know what came over me, I’ve been under a lot of stress. I never should have said those words to you, been so cruel. It wasn’t your fault, how could it be, my princess, my jewel in the crown of his camp. You are everything to me, I love you, forgive me?” Dutch had begged her forgiveness, and of course she accepted his apology. Of course she jumped into his arms and pretended nothing had happened. Of course she had known he must have written the words he spoke to her down, he must have practised them at least several times. 

But. But she had believed him, she knew despite the rehearsal the words were true. Maybe it had been her own ignorance of the situation, but there had been another change in him which she hadn’t really noticed at first, perhaps because she knew so little of what happened. She knew there had been an accident involving a tram, Arthur and Lenny had reported that Dutch had hit his head pretty bad. She realised then, almost in horror that the worst stuff had been after that, not just after Hosea died. 

Guilt trickling down her throat, a moment where she believed she had fucked up. The hands of time could not be turned back, she was not able to undo what she or Dutch had done to one another. 

After his apology, after it had sunk in, she had dropped to the floor by his feet and buried her head in his lap, she looked up to him with the same admiration and love he had seen on their first day meeting.

“Dutch, why don’t you open up to me like you used to?” 

The question, clearly had caught him off guard, “Isla I…”

She pressed on, “We’re meant to be in a partnership right? You and I against the world? So you can tell me anything, you could have told me anything before…If you were struggling,” she felt herself welling up inside as she spoke. “I asked you before to talk to me, that you weren’t alone in this,” she reached up to his face and brushed away the tears on his cheek.

He didn’t reply but offered a weak smile, one that told her how much he loved her, “Come here,” he spoke softly, she complied, as always, raised herself higher, taller then slid down onto his lap like the old days.

“My girl,” he stroked her hair as he spoke, “Always my girl, we’ll be alright won’t we darlin’?” 

She nodded, “Yes Dutch, I love you,” and when their lips met, all was forgiven, just like that. 

And so this is how they were, backwards and forward with their words, their arguments, each staking their claim to the violent world they inhabited. There had been so many beautiful moments of tender love and forgiveness, of genuine care and hope… But all of these memories were fragile now, so easily shattered by the unbearable truth. 

They spoke of marriage once, after the second miscarriage. But after that fateful date, after the storm which had destroyed the final hope she had, she declined his offer.

“For I’m not worthy of you,” and he had touched her face, stroked her cheek, “What if you meet another woman, someone capable of giving you all of them?”

The smile he had given her then had been one of the saddest she had known, “But, my love, you have, you have given me your all,” his kisses peppered her knuckles, it was the deepest sorrow she had ever known. 

*

On the mountain, at the end of days as Arthur laid dying, a part of her died with him. She suspected the same went for Dutch, though he never mentioned it. At the end of days, she went with Dutch. Part of her reason for siding that way was Javier, she didn’t hate Arthur, John, Charles or Sadie… She didn’t hate those who left early, in a way she had been jealous of them. For the freedom they gained. But herself and Javier, maybe they stayed with Dutch because of one another.

Shortly after, she saw Javier for the last time. She broke. There was love in his eyes, Dutch had barely tried to keep the remaining members of the gang together. He became hollow, a shell of the man he was before. Isla knew that as he watched Arthur, the man he called son, slip away into the afterworld, a part of Dutch had died too.

Regret, Dutch would confess years later, he regretted so much, his pride had cost him his family and all his dreams. 

Javier had left for Mexico in the end, the calling of his home country too much for him to ignore anymore. He had asked her to go with him, she had smiled sadly, as was common when she was around him, “Goodbye Javier.”

Their lips had met one last time, Dutch had watched from afar but had no strength in him to say anything or try to stop them. Javier’s lips were soft, the kiss hungry as he pulled her into a tight embrace.

“You look after yourself, you know,” Javier stopped pulled away for a moment, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “The thought of you, was what kept me going in Guarma, when they tortured me, I thought of that smile of yours in the pale moon light.”

Isla had looked at the ground, conflicted and torn, Javier took her chin and gently tilted it so she was looking at him again, “Don’t be afraid,” he looked over at Dutch, “He’ll look after you, and if he doesn’t Mi amor, you can always join me later…” Wordless, she had kissed him again, pulled him into her arms and held him tight, afraid of the chill that would replace where he had stood when he left. 

After that, her and Dutch had lived a simple life on a small homestead, mostly keeping out of trouble, she had worked as a bounty hunter and sold meat and pelts to trappers. Every time she felt any hint of regret creep into her mind, she pushed it away, dotting on her old man, simple kisses and what love was felt keeping her afloat. 

There was one evening, sat outside in the dying light of day that Dutch had turned to her, his hand on hers, “Why didn’t you leave with him?”

“Huh?” The question had caught her so off-guard she didn’t know what he was referring to at first. 

“Javier, you could have gone with him, I know how close you were,” he seemed much older then, in the dusky blue and pink light, the spark inside him had finally gone out. 

She leaned in and kissed his cheek, “Because he wasn’t you, because I made a promise to look after you, and I intend to keep that promise.” 

And she did, they rarely slept together but on occasion would be close. He spent most of his time reading, occasionally reading to her, occasionally brushing her hair, occasionally apologising for the things that were but could not be changed. 

She slept with John once, in the aftermath of it all, whilst Abigail and Jack were away, she found him and with him Charles and Uncle. It had been nice to see the others again, they didn’t speak of Dutch, she was sure John would want revenge and so she only stayed the one night, after they’d all been drinking. She’d spent the night with them reminiscing over old times and John had taken her into his bed, in the home he had built for Abigail. 

*

On a mountain for a second time, with John, as he pointed the gun at Dutch, ready to end a miserable life, Isla had to step in. Despite her wanting it all to be over, the love she had had for him, it knew no bounds. 

“John please!” She begged through tears.

She turned to Dutch, her old man looked so frail, so helpless. Wrinkles, grey hair, a world away from his glory days 

“I had a plan…” Dutch spoke.

She shook her head, “No silly, you didn’t, no more plans, no more,” she struggled to talk, to breathe as both anxiety and pain ripped her apart.

She turned back to John, stared down the barrel of his gun, “My friend, my brother, I love you, I love you and I know, I know why you’re here. Hell if I were you, I would do the same, but please, please don’t take him from me.” She fell to her knees in front of Dutch and John, sobbing into her skirts, “He’s all I have. Don’t save him for him, save him for me, spare his life and I promise, I promise you’ll never see either of us again.”

And John had relented, for a moment he had lowered his weapon, unsure of the path he would take. For Dutch, for the sake of old times but more for the sake of her, he lowered his weapon. He felt he would hate himself until the end of days for it, but he had Abigail, he had Jack, Charles, Sadie, Uncle… He had his family. Due to Dutch’s relentless ego, she was left with nothing, apart from his love. 

John witnessed Dutch cry, witnessed the broken man fall to his knees beside her and cradle her. 

“She deserves so much better than you!” John spat, “Arthur deserved better than you, we all did!”

Dutch had looked up, “I tried, I really did.”

“I know,” John found he couldn’t look him in the eye when he said that. 

Dutch turned to Isla, her cold hands in his own, “Why, why didn’t you let him finish me off? You could have gone with him, lived a good life…”

“Because I love you, you stupid fool,” she sobbed into his shoulder.

“Even after all this time?”

“Especially after all this time.”

“You were the only one who believed in me.”

“Not true, they all did.”

Dutch slowly got to his knees, smiled sadly at John and then looked back down at Isla. 

“Isla, I love you, I always have, I will always will.”

All of her tears, all of her fighting, her last stand, her very soul couldn’t save him in that moment.

“Look after her for me John!” Dutch shouted as he took a step back.

She watched helplessly as Dutch took another step backwards, finally stepping off the mountain ledge, he looked so old to her then, so frail. He didn’t turn to face his destiny, he welcomed it with open arms.

Love dripped from her, melancholia that would haunt her till her dying breath, embraced her then in that moment. Icy fingers held her steady, against her very nature, she wanted to jump up, run to him, hold him back, grab his hand. The final fight he put up was one she knew she couldn’t compete with. Letting go was the hardest lesson she had to turn. Flash backs of the years of happiness, flooded her senses like a hot summer’s day in a meadow full of daises.

The saddest thing, then, was as he stepped off the mountain his face changed, muscles relaxed, a weary smile of a father ready to meet his son once again. A man beaten by himself. A man who in his final moments became what he once was, passionate, yet soft, unyielding against the relentless tide of a cruel world.

John ran forwards, had to hold her back, his arms holding her steady against the beating of her heart, her wings so desperate to fly against this violent act.

Dutch had been there for her for most of her life, she had left her home, her family to start a new life. A new life that never got a chance to be born, for Dutch had swept her off her feet before she had a chance. But she hadn’t minded, despite any doubt, she didn’t regret the life she’d lived with him.

John and Isla, too stunned to talk, sat in the snow as the wild wind tore past them. Though both unbearably cold, neither had it in them to move for a moment. John had slummed to Isla’s side, wrapped his arms around her and that was where they stayed, relishing in one another’s warmth for the moment. Neither strong enough to stand up and look over the mountain edge.

When they finally stood, they did it together, arms wrapped around one another’s waists, the tears had taken any energy left in them. The pain to raw to even begin to comprehend. They walked slowly to the base of the mountain, the second she laid eyes on Dutch’s body, blood splattered like a Rorschach around him, she sunk to her knees once again, her breaths were short as panic took control of her. 

“Hey, hey,” John was there, rubbing her back gently but keeping enough distance for her to breathe. 

“I don’t know what to do John…I can’t just leave him like that, look at him…” she looked up across the snow at the still body of the man she had loved more than anything. How peaceful he now looked. 

“We won’t leave him sweetheart, we’ll take him home, give him a burial,” he knew his words were hollow in comparison to what she was feeling. 

In a way to John, Dutch’s death had been easy, had he of pulled the trigger he might have found it hard to live with himself, had he and Isla gotten away, well that too may have had similar consequences. In a way, this was the perfect ending to an already tragic tale.

Isla got to her feet and nodded to John, slowly, taking baby steps she walked towards Dutch. She was visibly shaking as she went, for a moment the tears had stopped but her cheeks were still damp, she tasted the salt on her lips and felt thirsty. But any need for her wellbeing was overridden by the sight in front of her eyes. 

She let out an almighty cry as she reached Dutch’s side, the sight of her poor frail old man, the man whom she would have married if the branches of life’s great oak tree had grown in other directions. 

“Isla,” John spoke softly.

She didn’t respond, she dropped to her knees beside him, cradled Dutch in her arms, “You stupid fool,” and all the tears that flowed splashed on his face, cold yes, but some warmth remained in him still. She gripped his shoulders, hoping if she squeezed tight enough, the pain might wake him from his slumber.

In Dutch’s death, the birds that had been caged for so long in her ribcage, burst free, she watched them fly until they disappeared beyond the horizon, into the nexus.

She buried her head into his chest, all those years, all those years she had wished for an escape, had wished she could re-write history and give her fairytale of running away a happy ending. But staring into Dutch’s still eyes, seeing how the light had faded so fast, her heart shattered. 

Until that moment she had had hope, it was hope beyond hope, a fools hope… That one day the remaining members of the gang would reunite, Dutch would redeem himself further, Micah’s death had been the start, but there was so much more he could have done. Up until that moment she had never really allowed herself to grieve over the loss of Arthur or the fact that Javier had left her, she didn’t grieve because Dutch didn’t, at least not openly or often.

Dutch had cried when they were alone, she had stroked his damp hair from his weathered face, had told him that his son was asleep now, no harm could come to Arthur, that Javier was free. That they were all free and could live a simple life, no more pain. And for the most part she had been right, Dutch would never get over the events that led to the gangs demise, would never stop criticising every decision he made. 

Isla would try to help, try to reassure him, even when she knew the words she spoke were lies, she couldn’t bare to inflict any further pain on an already troubled man. 

She wept now into his chest, her arms cradling him as she had once cradled that dead sparrow. There was a sorrow so deep that no one word could surmise how she felt, but it was a sorrow for what could have been, now in his death there would be no more plans, no light shining at dawn to give her new hope for the two of them. The road she had embarked on long ago when she boarded that ship, only 19, so young to the world, so excited for what could be, she knew as she pressed her ear to his chest, to be comforted only by emptiness, she was at the end. A middle-aged woman staring now into the precipice, a life well lived for the most part, utterly lost, she was 19 again. 

She didn’t hear John’s footsteps approach her, but his voice broke her from her melancholy, “Why don’t you come back with me to Beecher’s Hope for now? Charles would be happy to see you, Uncle too.”

She offered a sad smile, “What about Abigail?”

“Abigail don’t need to know what happened between us.”

“I’d feel too awkward…”

“Don’t be silly, come back with us for a few days at least and decide where you want to go from there. You can stay with me if you like, or we’ll see you right so you can go start your own adventure,” he paused, “Javier is still in Mexico, I think… I know how much you wanted to go there one day and,” he paused again watching his friend kiss her dead lover’s forehead, wondering whether or not this was an appropriate thing to say, “I know how close you two were.”

She gave a mirthless laugh, “Really, the love of my life is still warm in my arms and you’re talking bout me running away across the border to find another lover.” She sighed.

“That’s not what I…” John had tried, he knew he wasn’t a poet like Charles or even like Arthur had been.

He retreated for a moment, wanting to leave her to grieve in private, staring up at the sky, watching the crows, watching the vultures circle, he hoped he had done enough, that he had and would do good by her. As Isla got to her feet, John thought of Arthur, he hoped that his brother would be proud. 

*

When they were both ready, when there was nothing left to do but say goodbye, Isla helped John lift Dutch’s body up onto her horse. The two of them rode in silence back to Beecher’s Hope. She spent several days there, happy to see the others, to eat alongside her old friends and see how much Jack had grown. 

Charles especially had warmed her heart, both sharing a long hug that seemed to go on forever. Afterwards they sat on the floor by the fireplace her head rested on his shoulder as she discussed her plans for the future with him, he listened intently, gave advice when she asked for it, let her know he would always be her friend if she needed anything. Losing Dutch had been the hardest thing she had ever known, but in the shadow of that dark day, her rekindled friendship with John and Charles, the reassurance from them both, the knowledge that she had a home if she needed it. That had been her reasoning for carrying on. 

John, Charles and Isla dug a grave for Dutch and buried him there in the morning, “So that he may live on throughout the day,” Isla said. Those were the only words she spoke at his burial, she didn’t cry, the time for grief had long passed. For it wasn’t just Dutch she was grieving for, it was for Arthur, for the others, for herself and her innocence lost. For her life that could have been, for the children they could have had. 

She laid carnations on the grave and placed a kiss to the cross Charles had made, “Goodbye my love. Now you take good care of Arthur.”

When it was done, she’d been embraced by John and Charles, the three of them stood in silence as Abigail watched from the porch, a sad smile on her face as she considered how lucky she had been in comparison to others she loved. 

She decided to leave for Mexico in the end, the allure of Javier after all these years, too much. Whilst she was glad she hadn’t left with him all those years ago, it seemed fruitless now to deny what was in her heart or for the craving of flesh that plagued her mind. 

The following day she sat with John on the porch, “I’ve decided to leave for Mexico,” she said matter of factly. There was no use denying the feeling she still harboured for Javier, or the fact that she no longer had a life here now Dutch was gone.

John had nodded as he sipped his coffee, there was something he needed to tell her if she was going to pursue his old friend, “Isla… I saw Javier, not that long ago. I know where he was.”

She looked across at him, “Where he was?”

He sighed and placed his coffee down, he turned to her and took her hands in his, “I was sent to track him down, to hand him over, dead or alive.”

The world stopped for her then, “But you said, you were the one who was encouraging me moment’s after Dutch threw himself off a fucking mountain to pursue him!” She snatched her hands away from John as she saw red, unable to comprehend what he was saying.

“Listen,” John continued, “I didn’t okay…I, it’s a really long story. but I saw him, we spoke, I couldn’t do it, couldn’t pull the trigger, but to hand him over and not let him die a free man…I let him go, I told the authorities where he was the had to figure out my own shit a different way. But the last thing I heard he was still alive.”

She felt the tears in his eyes, a sob waiting to come out but instead she buried her head in her hands and gave a muffled cry, so he was likely alive after-all. 

John placed his hand on her shoulder, this time she didn’t pull away, but sat up, face red, stained with tears and threw her arms around his neck, “John… I, promise me, promise me if things don’t work out, if I can’t find him, I can come back here.”

“I told you,” he soothed, “Abigail and I, we’ll always have a bed for you here.”

She sat back and nodded, trying to compose herself, she knew she was acting erratic and needed to take a moment to breathe. She stared up at the moon, contemplated it’s beauty, the moon was a woman, a goddess and a goddess was what she had been to Dutch. But that’s how it always worked with gods in love, near impossible to live side by side in peace. The comparison made her smile, yes, they had been two great gods at the heart of something larger than either could understand. The turning of the world, as sure as the tide and the seasons, they had fought, battled on against a world that had no place for them anymore, a world that didn’t want them.

“Don’t you see John,” she smiled, “We did it, even though we failed, we fought against a world that had no place for us and for a moment, they were afraid of her,” she gave a small laugh, “For a moment we won, we earned our place in the history books, don’t yah think?”

John could only smile sadly, her words too much to comprehend in a single moment, all that was left to say was, “Arthur’d be so proud of you.”

“And you…”

The following morning she packed up her horse, said her goodbyes to the others before John walked her out to see her off.

He couldn’t promise her that Javier would be waiting, that his revolutionary heart was even still beating. But he told her where he’d last seen him, told her the likely places he would have traveled to. And so Isla left with hope, John had at least given her that. Besides, there was nothing left for her in America anymore, as the sun set she said her silent goodbyes to Dutch and Arthur, reflected on the fairy tale she had woven to make it easier to swallow a bitter truth. 

And so we battle on, against the raging of the storm, love, love could never be consumed by something so fickle as the weather, something so bereft of heart and fleeting.

As she rode across the desert she was born again, returning to a transcendental state, one that she had known a long time ago, a 19 year old girl full of hope sailing across the Pacific Ocean dreaming of an adventure.


End file.
